Treading Water
by Cheerie Mai
Summary: She is like treading water. And he loves every minute of her. Yuffentine. Re-beta-ed.
1. Chapter 1

She thinks of a wedding.

A dark, dank, menacing aisle to which she cannot see the end, but where death waits indefinitely at the alter instead of happily-ever-after. A lonely, quiet reception where the only guests are the bride and groom. There is no orchestra and no wedding bells, only the eery sound of water dripping slowly from the underground pipelines. There is no carpet that has been rolled out for them, and no flower girls to carry the train of the white dress she is not wearing. There is no best man to hand her not-groom the ring when it's finally time to say 'I do'. And the man she stands next to certainly harbors no thoughts of marrying _her_, and happens to lack the proper attire to do so even if he did.

It is not really like a wedding at all.

She does think about asking his opinion on the matter, but she might give him the right idea, so she keeps quiet.

Staring down the corridor, she wishes it were a wedding. She'd much rather entertain thoughts of marrying Vincent Valentine than those of dying beside him. But, of course, he doesn't need to know that.

"Vincent?" she asks.

He grunts quietly in response.

"Are we going to die?"

He does not answer. Her question has caught him off-guard.

She waits patiently as he thinks of an answer, one that will not upset her.

After a moment, he grumbles "Would you like me to be honest with you? Or would it be more comforting for me to lie?"

She has no answer to this, because, quite frankly, neither option seems particularly appealing. But, she will not ask him to lie because that will only make it more difficult. They both know their chance of survival is slim at best.

"Vincent?"

He gives another grunt.

"Can I ask you something else?"

He looks down at her in annoyance, "That would depend on the question."

"...Will you promise me something?"

"That would depend on the promise."

"I mean, will you promise to do something for me, if we live?"

"That would depend on the request."

She stares at her feet and thinks of the wedding.

"You have to promise me, that if we live... you'll marry me."

He does not know how to respond. He thinks at first she is joking, or maybe her multitude of tumbles have finally gone to her head. Maybe it's just the trauma. He prays it's just the trauma.

"Yuffie–,"

"Oh please, please Vincent?" she begs, grabbing the hem of his cloak and holding on as though for dear life. "Please don't say no. It would the mean the whole world to me."

Those pleading eyes of hers make him sick, but he couldn't bear it if she started to cry.

"Please, please promise me you'll do it."

He wishes she were kidding, but the way she tugs at his cloak and looks at him with those watery eyes make it very clear she is not. He doesn't care for the thought of dying, but the idea of making a silly promise that he knows perfectly well he will not, and cannot, keep is equally repulsive. But there's no reasoning with her. She is desperate in every sense of the word, and he finds himself not knowing what he should do.

He gazes down at her calmly, a certain softness in his eyes that fills her with hope and doubt at the same time.

"Yuffie."

She buries her face in the piece of cloak she clutches.

"Please, Vincent. I won't care if you don't mean it, and we don't even have to go through with it if everything works out. But I can die happy, too, just knowing that you said yes."

Why is he doing this, he thinks.

Because he can't stand to see her so miserable. Because he wants to comfort her. Because he wants her to have some reason to make it through this. Because...

"... Yes."

She looks up from the scrap of cloak, eyes and nose running.

"Really?"

He is an idiot, he thinks.

"Yes."

"You mean it?"

He always had too soft a heart.

"... I promise."

But he doesn't want to let her down.

He is horribly dismayed when she begins to cry anyway. Had she not just said that this was she wanted? He frowns. He will never understand women.

But then she mumbles a quiet 'thank you' through her tears and it seems to make a little more sense.

He watches her sob quietly into the scrap of cloak and wonders if it will take much longer for her composure to return. He has a great deal of business to attend to and knowing that it waits unfinished at the end of the corridor makes him anxious.

When at last she releases the corner of his cloak that she has thoroughly drenched and rubs away the remnants of her tears with the backs of her hands, he is not sure whether to move forward or to stay put and let her take a moment. But then she looks up at him with eyes that are red and swollen from crying and he realizes that she expects something. Something he does not have.

"I apologize. Had I been expecting an engagement, I would have made a trip to the jeweler beforehand," he says.

He thinks she would have found this amusing under normal circumstances, because it is not often that he attempts to be humorous, and because she is regularly the only one who realizes when he does. But she does not smile. She cannot honestly expect him to have had a ring ready.

"I know, I know," she acknowledges nonchalantly. "It's not like I was planning on this either."

He quirks a brow, befuddled by her sudden lack of concern. She huffs a breath and plants her hands on her hips. How many times has he watched her take this same stance? The thought almost makes him smile, but he is more concerned with their unfortunate position.

"I know it's silly and unconventional," she continues practically, "but isn't there _anything_ you could use for a ring? I mean, it's not even a real proposal and we're hardly in love with each other, but the ring still counts for something, doesn't it?"

He doesn't exactly understand how, but he keeps that to himself and simply nods instead.

"It's like the material form of the promise, you know? It, like, symbolizes the vow, you know? I don't know. I must sound ridiculous."

He thinks there is rarely a time when she doesn't sound ridiculous, but it's painfully endearing at the same time. And he supposes he can see her point, if only mildly.

He looks down at Cerberus, waiting readily in its holster and a familiar glimmer catches his eye. His Cerberus Relief sways gently from the silver chain that links it to the tail of the gun. Perhaps he can make it work. After all, she does have very small fingers.

She watches curiously as he gives the chain a firm tug and it breaks easily. A few of the broken links scatter across the steel floor, clinking softly. He carefully pulls a fresh one from the chain and in one hand molds it effortlessly into a perfect circle. Without looking, he reattaches the relief to Cerberus.

She, on the other hand, is down on her knees, scouring the floor for the little silver links he had dropped.

He smiles gently.

"Yuffie."

She looks up from her search and he can see several of the links cradled in her palm. Taking one last look around her to make sure she has recovered all of them, she stands without being asked and offers them back to him. He shakes his head.

"I have no need of them."

She shrugs and slips the little handful of silver into her pocket. As soon as she does, he delicately takes her left hand in his and slides the misshapen link onto her finger. He is pleased with himself to see that it fits.

"This will have to suffice until I can buy a proper ring," he says.

She smiles, admires the makeshift band, and thinks of a wedding.


	2. Chapter 2

It will not be an easy thing to explain. She is really quite perturbed by the whole prospect. She had not expected him to agree, and now she almost wishes he hadn't. She would be a liar if she pretended she had no desire to marry Vincent Valentine. But she would a liar of the worst kind if she pretended she were allowed to. She will need to mention that to him some time. She wonders what she will do when she returns home, what she will say to her father.

Since childhood, she has been searching for a means of eluding her heritage, and now that the perfect opportunity has at last presented itself, she finds herself shying away from it. She is not nearly as brave as she makes herself out to be. The throne of her country holds no appeal to her, nor does the arranged marriage that accompanies it, and Vincent has unwittingly offered her the perfect loophole. But she shudders to think on the consequences of refusing her country's traditions. She knows she doesn't have the guts to face her arranged marriage, but the courage required to confront the repercussions of purposely eliminating said eligibility is also sorely lacking. Maybe she will get lucky and Vincent will take her up on her offer and refuse to follow through. But she would honestly rather he didn't.

For a brief moment, she pauses and thinks of a wedding.

"Yuffie?"

She looks up disinterestedly.

Tifa eyes her curiously from across the bar, and for a moment, she worries that the inconspicuous little band on her ring finger has been noticed. She instinctively moves her hands into her lap where the martial artist cannot see them.

"Is everything alright? You seem a little distracted," Tifa continues concernedly.

"Just tired, s'all," she replies.

She hasn't slept a wink in the last five days, after all.

Tifa seems less than convinced as she rests a hand on her hips and furrows her brow. But Yuffie only shrugs, so she lets the matter drop.

"Yuffie?" she tries again after the ninja looks away.

"Hn."

She does not bother to look up. Tifa smiles at the young shinobi's quiet grunt.

"You know, you sound more and more like him every day. It's a little scary," she teases.

Yuffie only shoots a crooked grin in her friend's direction before gazing absently out the window once again.

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" she replies cynically.

Tifa volleys back the same sardonic grin, "No, I was actually wondering if you had spoken to him since he checked out of the hospital."

The kunoichi does not answer immediately.

No, she thinks, he hasn't. Not once. She then realizes that she hasn't even the slightest inkling as to where he is. She foolishly hopes he is at home in his apartment in Kalm, where he should be. But, of course, she knows he isn't. Vincent Valentine is very rarely ever where he should be.

She has thought many times about calling him herself, but the likelihood of him bothering to answer his phone is not high. And seeing her name on the caller ID would certainly not improve said likeliness. And despite technically holding the title of his fiancée, she doesn't want to be a bother. A part of her wonders if he's paid a visit to the jeweler's yet, although she finds herself growing fond of the tiny silver band. A great big rock on her finger would be just a touch too bold for her current predicament. Because she isn't quite ready to share her little secret yet, especially when she still has an infamously short-tempered father to inform and is not yet prepared, and likely never will be, to do so.

She wonders again if he actually means to keep his promise. The little silver band certainly makes her hope so.

"No," she answers at last, "I haven't."

Tifa frowns.

"Do you think he's back in Kalm?"

Yuffie sighs and slumps forward before grumbling a muffled 'I don't know' into her arms.

She wishes she did.

* * *

As he turns the band over in his fingers he wishes he had remembered it at the time. How careless of him. He sits in silence on his bed and wonders again why he even said yes in the first place. Her hand is not his to take in matrimony, and he would be a liar if he pretended he wanted it to be. But he would be a liar of the worst kind if he pretended he wouldn't take it anyway. Because as messy a situation as this is, in his mind, if they are really going to do this, they are going to do it right. If only he had a clue as to how he is supposed to propose this to her father. The lord of Wutai will not be like to relinquish his princess and sole successor, especially to a man of Vincent Valentine's caliber, and especially when he is sure that aforementioned princess is already trapped within the makings of an arranged marriage.

What has he gotten himself into, he thinks.

He sits in silence on his bed and turns the band over in his fingers, staring out the window. Fireworks explode in the darkened sky and music rises from the streets. Kalm is celebrating again.

He knows he should call her, but he can't make himself pick up his phone and dial her number. He stares at the intricate silver ring that rests in his palm. He hopes she will like it, because it cost him more gil than he wants to admit to have it made, not to mention that his long barrel was now a quarter of an inch shorter. Custom-made wedding rings did not come cheap. He turns it over, watching an engraved Cerberus wind its way around the band. He will need to think of a clever means of proposing.

He breathes heavily and leans back against the headboard.

If only she'd never asked him that silly question.

"_Are we going to die?"_

If only she hadn't started crying.

The image of her sobbing into his cloak makes him cringe.

If only she hadn't begged him to promise.

"_Please, please promise me you'll do it."_

If only she hadn't brought up dying.

"_But I can die happy, too, just knowing that you said yes."_

If only she hadn't looked up at him with those sad stormy eyes.

He thinks of her face as she looks up from the corner of his cloak, eyes red and nose running.

If only he hadn't wanted so badly to give her a reason to fight, to live.

If only that reason hadn't been him.

He closes his eyes, ignores his cell phone vibrating on the end table, and thinks of a wedding.

* * *

She is not surprised in the least when he does not answer. He doesn't even have a personalized voice mail system, so she does not bother to leave a message, since she doubts he listens to them anyway. She wonders if he really even knows how to operate his phone, aside from taking incoming calls. She doubts he ever wanted to learn. He has always been stubborn that way.

However, none of this changes that she would _kill_ just to hear his voice at this moment. She curses his lack of initiative and obstinate disposition.

"Vincent Valentine, you big dope."

She frowns at her cell phone sitting silently on the counter in front of her.

"You'd better be okay."

It is just as dark and quiet outside as it is in Tifa's bar. She is growing tired of waiting up all night every night, listening for her cell phone to ring or the door to creak when it opens. But the same silence hangs unbroken tonight as it has every night before. She wonders if he thinks of her, sitting up every night with a shot glass, waiting for him. After all, he promised. He has to come home sometime. He promised her. She glances at the dainty silver band on her finger and thinks of a wedding. But she does not smile. Maybe she shouldn't have taken him seriously, but when she thinks on it, it's exceptionally difficult to take Vincent Valentine any other way. The word 'light-hearted' is very rarely a part of the man's vocabulary. But what else is she truly supposed to think when he fixes her with those blazing crimson eyes and that gentle smile that makes him so impossibly beautiful she can barely think in the first place? How can she take him in any other manner than seriously?

However, a part of her thinks she should have expected this. Vincent has always been one to take his sweet time, to think things through thoroughly, to make sure he knows exactly what he is about do. She only hopes he doesn't think this through too much. He might just realize what a fool he's been and change his mind. And then she would be left heartbroken in every sense of the term. And she would rather face an angry Godo Kisaragi who has just been informed that his only daughter has been illegally married than cope with the pain of Vincent's rejection.

She is at a loss for what to do. There is too much for her to think about by herself. She wishes he were here to help her plan, help her try to deal. She wishes he were here to smile at her the way she loves and hold her hand. She wishes he were here just so she could inhale the faint smell of cinnamon and desert dust that clings to his skin.

She throws back another shot and stares out the window. She thinks it's a good thing that everyone else is asleep.

* * *

They need to talk. He knows this.

He should have called her by now. He knows this.

She's been waiting on him for the last six days. He knows this.

She will be absolutely infuriated when he shows up at the door Seventh Heaven. He knows this.

He will sustain _some_ form of bodily damage at her dainty little hands. He knows this.

She will lose control of her temper and end up putting them in a highly inappropriate situation. He _knows_ this.

And to be quite frank, he dreads every last bit of it. She will be perfectly pleasant when he calls, but will attempt to forcefully separate his head from his neck when he walks through the door. She will throw a few good punches and he will end up with a few equally good bruises. He is not particularly enthralled with the idea of sitting down to talk, and he does not even want to think about the latter most event. Because Yuffie has always been a little too convincing, and he has always been a little too soft, and this deadly combination is what has trapped them in this situation in the first place. He shudders to think about what else he might give in to if she throws another of her teary little glances his way. In that sense, the little ninja almost frightens him. Until their current predicament has been thoroughly sorted out, he must restrain himself from making any further promises. Because while his mind has already been made up for him, she could still back out if she wished, and she very well might. As long as he has known Yuffie, she has always been indecisive, especially when the decision is a difficult one.

"Yuffie," he breathes, "I hope you have thought about what it is you are getting yourself into."

He scans his lonely apartment and gently touches his thigh, feeling the shape of the ring resting at the bottom of his pocket. Yes, he has all he needs. He lifts his phone off the desk as he heads for the door.

_1 missed call._

He slips out the front door, shutting it quietly behind him and listening to make the lock catches. It does.

The heels of his boots click on the stairs as he takes his time descending them. He is in no hurry to reach Edge by midnight. He hates to make her lose another night of sleep, but unfortunately this is a conversation that he is not willing to have in the presence of others. She will understand.

_1 missed call._

He knows.

She is going to kill him.

* * *

But not before she launches something very large, very heavy and very solid at his pretty head the moment he walks through the door, whenever that is going to be. He has neglected to return her phone call as of yet, and now that the days number six, almost seven, her patience is dwindling. And to make things worse, or better depending on you were, she has recently learned the location of Tifa's cookware, so when he does come home, she will be sure that his face makes the acquaintance of the bottom of the barmaid's largest frying pan.

It is the afternoon of the sixth day, and she still sits on the same stool at the bar, the same shot glass sitting on the counter in front of her, and fumes silently.

The nerve, she thinks. Even after six and a half days, he can't bother to call.

She is going to kill him.

She is going to hug him so tightly that the very life is squeezed out of him, and then she is going to kill him.

She is going to scream, and cry, and punch him, and tell him how much she missed him and what an insensitive idiot he is. She is going to yell at him that she hates him and that he can't imagine how worried she's been, and then she is going to kill him.

And she wonders darkly just how long he is planning on making her wait.

At the sound of soft footsteps, she looks up as Tifa approaches her with a dark bottle in her hand. The bar mistress smiles and holds up the bottle.

"Need another shot, Yuffie?"

The ninja nods thankfully and pushes the empty glass across the counter. Tifa continues to grin knowingly as she uncorks the bottle and fills the shinobi's glass with the dark liquor. Once the shot glass is full, she sets the bottle down beside her on the counter and pushes the glass back to it's owner before leaning forward onto her elbows and fixing her friend with a pointed smile.

Yuffie throws the shot back in one gulp.

"You haven't heard from him yet, have you?"

"He still hasn't called me back," she answers bitterly.

Tifa takes her shot glass and fills it again, smiling sympathetically at the Wusheng princess.

"Try not to worry _too_ much," she counsels, pushing the glass back toward her, "he'll come home."

"I know," Yuffie says, downing the shot in another quick swig, "I just wonder sometimes if he ever thinks about the sleep I'm losing staying up to wait for him."

She shoots Tifa a sardonic smile and slides the empty glass back across the counter.

The martial artist volleys back an equally cynical grin.

"Last one," she warns, filling the glass yet again and handing it back to her.

"Alright, alright," the ninja complies, sipping daintily at this one instead.

Tifa only laughs quietly and walks around the outside of the bar to rest a hand on her friend's shoulder.

"You know, you really should take a shower sometime before he comes home."

"Are you trying to say that I smell?"

"Maybe."

"Thanks, Tifa. I appreciate your honesty. I'll go drown myself in the bathtub now, if you don't mind."

Both laugh, but say nothing. Tifa stares out the window. Yuffie stares at her shot glass. She wishes she knew _when_ he'd come home.

"I know you don't feel like he does, but he does think about you, you know," Tifa says gently after a moment. "I'd be willing to bet that the first thing he says to you when he comes back is 'I'm sorry'. He's probably spent all week moping around and feeling bad about it."

The martial artist strokes the ninja's short hair affectionately, "He'll come around."

Yuffie gives her a half-hearted smile and traces the edge of her glass with a finger. She watches as Tifa yawns and stretches her arms above her head before fixing her with a crooked grin.

"When he does come home, try not to beat him up too badly. And if you know what's good for you, you won't dent any of my pots, or wake up Cloud if it's the middle of the night."

"I'll remember that," Yuffie replies with mild humor, although she doubts that she will manage to avoid either.

* * *

She is going to kill him.

He ponders this unfortunate fact as he passes through the outer city limits of Edge. At shortly after one o'clock in the morning, the swiftly recuperating city is dark and quiet, just as it had been during his previous visit. And ironically enough, it's even decided to rain.

The moisture drenches his hair and soaks through the heavy fabric of his cloak. His boots click against the wet pavement as he splashes carelessly through puddle after puddle. It's a shame he will not even look presentable when she attempts decapitate him, and he had just showered this morning before leaving.

He thinks he should have called, but he doubts it would have changed anything. She is awake and waiting for him.

Idly, he fingers the shape of the ring in his pocket, as though it gives him some kind of comfort. She will probably throw it, along with numerous other solid objects, at his head. He only hopes that Tifa has locked up all the kitchen knives and liquor bottles. Having a bottle broken over one's head is not a pleasant experience, he thinks, recalling his days of drinking as a Turk.

He stalks past familiar buildings and streets, hunching further into his cloak, as if to escape the rain. But he is already so thoroughly drenched that he can feel the water beginning to weigh down his cloak. He wishes he was not going to arrive and have to fend off a rabid, nineteen-year-old little girl who just so happened to be a veteran shinobi. He would much rather go straight upstairs and take another shower, but he has already given up all hope of that occurring.

He has even thought about what he will say to her, although he doubts he will actually get the chance to say very much. He's preparing himself for the worst.

He touches the ring yet again out of idleness. He's not far now.

A part of him longs to see her. He has found himself missing her bright smile and cheerful disposition. And her laugh, her laugh that sounds like the wind through a little silver chime on a summer evening. But her smiles and wind chime laughter will disappear when he walks through the door of Seventh Heaven, and this knowledge makes him want to turn around and walk all the way back to Kalm. But he can see the front of the bar now, and he knows it is too late. If he turned around now, she might _really _kill him, instead of just beating him senseless.

His steady pace does not slow as he approaches the front door. But when at last he reaches the front steps and the door handle is within arm's reach, he hesitates. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes for a moment.

And he opens the door.

His mako enhanced eyes adjust easily to the dim light of several small candles that have been scattered around the bar, and he spots her immediately. She is sitting at the bar, her back to him, cell phone and empty shot glass sitting next to her on the counter.

As discreetly as possible, he lets the door swing shut. She already knows he is here. But she makes no movement, and says nothing.

He stands in the doorway for a long moment, dripping water from every appendage until a good-sized puddle has accumulated at his feet. Tifa will not be happy about that, he thinks.

Again, he fingers the shape of the ring in his pocket.

"Welcome home."

She is swivelled halfway around on her barstool, staring at him over her shoulder. She doesn't smile.

It is a struggle to keep a straight face. Absolutely drenched, hair and clothes dripping, he is still so painfully beautiful. The moonlight that pours through the window glints off his sopping ebony hair in all shades of blue and purple and lights his elegant face. The glow of his pale skin is a striking contrast against his long sable hair. He too, wears an expression of apathy, but his thin lips and defined jaw makes it seem far more natural. And as his garnet eyes stare her down, she wonders how he can be so agonizingly gorgeous. It takes all her strength to choke down a smile and remember that she is supposed to be angry.

His only response is her name in the low, velvety tenor of his voice.

"Yuffie."

She looks as she always does, but it is blatantly obvious that she has gone far too long without sleep. She is beyond exhausted.

She still wears her black and purple belly shirts and citrus orange short shorts. She's even neglected to kick off her boots and stockings.

He thinks she has been away from the Wusheng beaches for a bit too long because the warm glow of her tan is fading, or maybe she just really _hasn't_ slept at all in the last six days. Even her normally slender figure seems to have suffered from her lack of sleep. He can easily count the ribs that peek out from beneath the hem her shirt. And her stormy eyes, always so full of vigor, seem dull and heavy.

She looks away after a moment, back at the empty shot glass that sits in front of her.

"I'm glad you're home," she says at last. "It's been almost a week, you know. I was really worried."

He traces the shape of the ring his pocket.

"I know."

"You never returned my call," she continues.

"I know," he echoes.

"I missed you."

She looks up at him again and he struggles to not look away.

"I'm sorry," he answers.

A bitter smile curves her lips as she lifts her shot glass.

"You know, you always apologize for the strangest things."

"Yuffie."

"That's okay, though. I suppose I should just be grateful that you came back, and that you're sorry at all," she says, ignoring him. "Right?"

He watches uneasily as she slides off the barstool and begins to walk toward him.

"But really, Vincent," she continues, suddenly cheerful, "would it kill you to call? Would it have killed you to pick up your cell phone and call me? Even just to let me know where you were, or to tell me that you were alright?"

"Yuffie," he murmurs but she doesn't seem to hear him.

"Seriously, how hard is it, Vincent, to just call me and tell me if and when you're coming home? Don't you ever think about how much it worries me when you just up and disappear like that?"

She is very quickly losing her temper and he realizes this.

"I hate it, Vincent. Do you even realize that I haven't slept at all for last the _six_ days? I haven't slept, I haven't eaten, I've hardly even _moved_ from that stupid barstool, except one time every morning to take a freaking _shower_!"

"Yuffie," he says firmly, "You need to calm down."

"Gaaawd," she drawls, "You don't have any idea, do you? You're so goddamn selfish, you know that? Always moping around, wallowing in self-disgust, making the rest of us sick with worry and you don't even _care_!"

"**Yuffie**," his voice is more commanding as he gently grasps her shoulders, but she wriggles away easily.

"Oh, _shut up_, Vincent!" she snaps, stepping away from him, "Just shut up! Gawd, I hate you!"

He is not prepared for her to lift a frying pan that is three times the size of her own head from one of the nearby tables. But as he moves to stop her, she snarls and swings around, striking the left side of his face with underside of the pan. The collision sends him staggering backwards into the door, clutching his left temple and growling in agony. His ears are ringing and through clouded eyes he can make out the shape of her tensed in front of him and glaring dangerously, the heavy pan weighing down her arms.

"Yuffie," he chokes.

She lashes out again – for the right half of his face this time – without bothering to let him finish and the only intelligible sound that passes his lips is a hoarse cry as the bottom of the pan crushes his right cheekbone.

"Damn you, Vincent!" she is screaming, tears pouring down her face as she jumps back only to swing out and strike him over his left shoulder. But the lack of a sickening crunch when the pan meets bone is infinitely disappointing and she hisses bitterly at her failure.

It is a struggle for him to remain standing now, holding his head in both hands and leaning against the door for support. He knows he is no longer in a position to defend himself because he certainly cannot shoot her – nor does he currently possess the visual capacity to do so even if he wished to – and he is so disoriented that attempting hand-to-hand combat with her would be futile. Speed and irrational anger; there has never been a more fatal combination. He thinks maybe he will die.

"I hate you!" she shrieks, "You stupid, selfish bastard! Why!? Why dammit!?"

He is motionless as she sidesteps and strikes him a fourth over the opposite shoulder with twice the force. It sickens her. He isn't trying in the slightest and it _sickens_ her.

"Why!?" she shouts again, "WHY–WON'T–YOU–HIT–ME–BACK!?"

She hesitates this time, and he can see it as she squeezes her eyes shut before swinging a fifth time for his head. But, as she does, overwhelmed by rage and the pain, he blocks the blow and rips the pan out of her hands to throw it across the room. Her eyes fly open and before she has even realized what's happened, in a moment of cruelty, he snarls viciously and with all his strength backhands her across the face.

The force throws her entire body aside and she hits the floor in a heap with a strangled cry.

He glares down at her, teeth bared and eyes blazing, growling under his breath. She doesn't think she has ever been more terrified of him.

It is then that she notices the little river of blood oozing from his left eyebrow. She is even more shocked to see ugly purple bruising that is enveloping both his temples and cheeks. She belatedly wonders if she broke his cheekbones. She reaches up to gingerly touch her own cheek which she is positive looks no better than his.

"Dammit, Yuffie," he curses her, grimacing as he touches his hand to his right temple.

He falls back against the door with a heavy thud and cradles his head in both hands. He can barely see, and the ringing in his ears is so loud it makes him sick. His shoulders are burning so badly he can barely continue supporting his head.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, looking down at her from between his fingers.

For some bizarre reason, the question seems entirely absurd in her head.

"_Me!?_" she spits at his feet, "What the hell is wrong with _you_, you stupid prick!"

He ignores her, feeling dizzy as he stumbles past her to the bar where he leans one arm on the counter and continues to support his head in the other hand.

"Did you hear me?" she says angrily, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

Her shrill voice hurts his ears and he winces at the discomfort.

"I did not attack you with a thirty pound frying pan," he states simply, his face twisting in agony.

"You slapped me! You fucking _backhanded_ me!" she shouts back, seething visibly.

"You told me to," he replies flatly.

She opens her mouth to counter, but then she realizes what he's actually said and immediately snaps it closed, glaring at him bitterly. Damn him for having to be right. He can make out the look of realization spreading across her face and he manages a feeble smirk.

She looks across the room to where he has thrown the pan and the guilt begins to settle. She could have killed him. Slowly, reluctantly, she picks herself up off the floor and ambles over to where he stands at the counter.

"Vincent?"

"Hn."

Her cool fingertips touch his cheek tenderly as she gently turns his head to look at her. His cheeks and temples are purple and sickly-looking. At the time, she hadn't realized how hard she'd struck him. She reaches up to touch the thin stream of blood that oozes thick and dark from his split eyebrow, but he flinches and she pulls away, her own fingers now sticky with blood. She rubs the digits together and looks at her feet.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles pathetically.

She feels his own bloodied fingers against her bruised cheek, but she doesn't look back.

"I believed you would kill me," he explains gently, "I struck you only in self-defense."

She nods. She knows this.

Meekly, she brushes his still wet bangs out of his eyes and dabs at the blood with the back of her hand.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks quietly, carefully blotting the split skin.

He chuckles weakly, "I am not sure. My vision has yet to fully return."

A tiny gasp escapes her lips. She hadn't stopped to think about what two blows of that caliber to the head might do to a person's eyesight.

"You're not blind, are you!?" she cries, waving a hand frantically before his eyes.

"No, Yuffie," he assures her blandly, pushing her hand down, "I am not blind. My vision is just somewhat blurred."

"Oh gosh," she worries, "I'm so sorry! I didn't stop to think about that!"

He smiles sardonically, "I do not think you stopped to think at all."

She frowns and punches him playfully in the shoulder, to which he does not take kindly. She immediately claps her hands over her mouth to stifle another gasp as he groans in discomfort.

"Sorry," she whispers as he nurses his shoulder, hissing in agony, "I forgot about that."

He listens as she scurries off into the kitchen and yanks open the fridge. She rummages around inside for a moment or two before he hears her shut the door again with an audible thud. How in the name of the planet they have not woken anyone, he does not know. She scuffles back into the bar and is back at his side in an instant, pressing a cold pack to his throbbing shoulder.

"Thank you," he murmurs as she holds it there.

"How's your vision doing? Can you see any better?" she asks, sweeping the hair out of his face yet again.

"Things are not quite as blurry. I can recognize the greater part of your facial features," he replies, gazing at her intently for emphasis.

She can immediately see there is a difference. His scarlet eyes are shaky and unfocused, their pupils far too small for the current lighting. To make matters worse, the bruising on the sides of his face is getting worse.

"You're not going to die, are you?" she blurts out, suddenly afraid that she might have actually killed Vincent Valentine.

But he only chuckles as he gently touches his right temple, "I do not think so. I believe my brain enhancements may have spared me any severe cranial damage. However, I would be willing to bet a fair amount of gil that both ends of my collar bone and possibly my shoulder blades have all suffered minor fractures or bruising."

She glares at him critically, as though she isn't sure she believes him, but he only sighs quietly and rolls his eyes.

"In other words, I will simply be sore for a few weeks."

Her expression does not lighten.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, Yuffie, I promise."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Yuffie, I am sure."

"Positive?"

He begins to look mildly irate, "Yes."

"Okay, okay. I just wanted to make sure, that's all."

"Yuffie?"

"Hm?"

"I think it would be wise for me to lie down."

"Oh, right!" she replies frantically, "I'll show you up to the guest bedroom! Gosh, Vince, I'm sorry, I just–,"

He cradles his head in his hands and shoots her a rather irritated glare, "Yuffie, please. Normally I find your chatter quite enjoyable, but at the moment, I am in far too much discomfort to do so."

He watches her mouth take the shape of a perfect 'o' before she snaps it closed. Carefully taking his hand, she mouths an apology.

"Do you need me to help you get up the stairs?" she offers quietly, leading him toward the staircase.

He staggers after her slowly, still grasping his head in one hand.

"I suppose we will see when we get there," he answers cynically.

He does. So she drapes one arm over her shoulder and leans his strong body against hers, and slowly, step by step, they make their way to the top of the staircase. Once they do, she pauses and lets him steady himself before guiding him down the last stretch of hallway to the spare bedroom where she carefully sits him down on the bed and helps him undo the buckles of his cloak and remove his boots. She even takes care to pull off his glove and gauntlet and unstrap his gun holster. When at last he is sitting on the edge of the bed in just his pants and shirt, she helps him get under the covers and lays the cold pack on his forehead.

She sits down next to him, all tucked in, and after a moment asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he answers quietly. "My vision has almost returned to normal."

"That's good," she says with a timid smile. "Maybe tomorrow morning I can try and get rid of some of the bruising on your face. And you should probably let Tifa take a look at your shoulders, too," she adds sheepishly.

"That would probably be for the best," he agrees, his voice growing thicker and deeper with exhaustion.

"But, right now, I'd say you'd be best off just getting some sleep, 'kay?

He does not respond, but instead lets his eyes close and she listens as his breathing pace evens.

It is then that she is suddenly painfully aware of the aching in her left cheek and the feeling of drowsiness creeping over her. Taking one last glance at the man sleeping next to her, still abnormally beautiful despite the bruises she's given him, she stands up and stumbles over to the old leather couch on the other side of the small guest room. She flops gratefully onto the squishy old sofa, burying her nose in the cushion and basking in the faint smell of Cid's cigarettes, Cloud's cheap beer, Tifa's perfume, and the deadly combination of cinnamon and desert dust.


	3. Chapter 3

"What the hell happened to you?"

He shoots the blond a cryptic glare, but doesn't answer, although he supposes Cloud's reaction is better than Tifa who had shrieked and dropped the platter she'd been carrying. Pancakes and orange juice had flown everywhere.

"Wow," Cloud admires his face with disgusted curiosity as he stalks into the kitchen. "She got you pretty damn good, didn't she?"

Again, he does not respond.

Cloud watches him as he takes a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water.

"You know," he continues, crossing his arms over his broad chest, "I thought she actually might've killed you. It sounded like she wacked pretty you hard last night, but _damn_... it _looks_ like she took Tifa's five-omelette frying pan to your face."

The blond laughs, but again Vincent frowns.

"She did."

Cloud stops immediately and stares at his comrade incredulously, "Seriously?"

"Twice," Vincent replies flatly, brushing past him to the kitchen table where the newspaper is waiting.

"God _damn_, Vincent... are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"That reminds me, I will need to have Tifa inspect my shoulders later," he says, leafing idly through this morning's paper.

Cloud doesn't seem to believe what he's just heard as he continues to stare in awe at the ugly black and purple bruising on Vincent's face.

"Fuck, she really _did_ get you good."

That is an understatement, he thinks as he takes a seat at the table and unfolds the newspaper, sipping lazily at his water. The girl damn near beat him to death, and were it not for his perdurable body, she very well could have. He is well aware of his current appearance, so Cloud's reaction seems perfectly reasonable. He is sure he looks worse now than he did ten days ago when he was checked into the hospital, because now that he thinks on it, he would much rather fall faster than the speed of sound from a height of two hundred stories than face an angry Yuffie Kisaragi with one of Tifa's frying pans.

"Cloud, leave poor Vincent alone," Tifa scolds, walking into the kitchen with a fresh breakfast platter. "He doesn't need you gawking at him like an animal in the zoo."

"For fuck's sake, Tifa! Look at him!" Cloud insists, gesturing crudely at his comrade.

Tifa does not seem fazed as she sets the overflowing platter in the middle of the table, eyeing the blond fiercely.

"Cloud, watch your language," she warns, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. "The children will be down any minute, and the last thing either of them needs is a mouth like yours."

"But, look at him!" Cloud presses, watching the barmaid take her usual seat at the table. "He looks like Yuffie tried to kill him!"

But Tifa only frowns at him before piling four pancakes on a plate and passing it to Vincent.

"Here you go, Vince. You must be hungry," she says pleasantly, ignoring her husband as Vincent carefully takes the plate and grumbles a quiet 'thank you'.

Exasperated, Cloud throws his hands in the air before stalking into the kitchen to fetch his fourth cup of coffee. Vincent hides a smirk behind his water glass as he takes another sip.

"Tifa."

The martial artist looks up from filling a plate for Cloud.

"Yes?"

Vincent takes another slow sip of water as he continues to flip through the paper.

"I would appreciate it if you would have a look at my shoulders, whenever you should have the time."

Tifa makes a face.

"Ooh, she got you there, too, huh?"

He nods shortly, stumbling upon an interesting article in the Political section.

Tifa clucks her tongue sympathetically and shakes her head before setting Cloud's overflowing plate in front of his seat at the table.

"Sure, Vincent. We'll have a look right after breakfast, okay?"

He nods yet again, listening to the thumps of Cloud's heavy footsteps as he wanders back to the table.

"I swear," he mumbles, sneaking another glance at Vincent's face as he takes his seat, "that brat did always have the worst temper."

"Do you think she'll be down for breakfast?" Tifa asks hopefully, holding up an empty plate.

But Vincent shakes his head, "She has not slept for six days, so I would not think so."

Upon waking this morning, he had found her sprawled out on the old sofa across the room, wrapped in his still wet cloak, snoring softly. For fear that she would catch ill from sleeping in his damp mantle all night, he had sprung from bed and immediately moved her from the soggy couch to his still-warm bed. He had done his best to move her as gently as he knew how, and thankfully she had not woken. Now that he thinks on it, even during their travels in AVALANCHE, the little ninja had always been an incredibly heavy sleeper.

After tucking her safely beneath the covers, he had wasted no time in commandeering the bathroom and having a shower.

When he had wandered back into the room to retrieve his clothes, she had still been sound asleep in the bed, her face buried in the pillow. And now as he sits showered and dressed at Tifa's breakfast table, he hopes she still is.

He turns and looks uneasily at Tifa.

"Has Yuffie been living with Cloud and yourself, Tifa?"

The barmaid nibbles daintily at her own breakfast before answering: "Off and on, yes. Yuffie spends a great deal of her time traveling because of her position in the WRO, so she doesn't stay in one place for too long. But, when she does need a place to stay, more often than not she shows up at our doorstep rather than returning to Wutai. I don't think the situation between her and Godo has improved, so she tends to avoid going home if she can."

He nods, but says nothing as Tifa takes a small sip of her orange juice.

"Either way, because of the Omega incident, Yuffie's been staying with us. Reeve and the WRO have been concentrating on cleaning up the leftovers of Deepground, so he hasn't really needed Yuffie over the past week and a half. I don't really know how much work she'll get at all now. Because Deepground has been eradicated, work in the information gathering department will be in short supply. So, with no real use for her skills, I don't know where she'll go."

"You know she's welcome to stay with us, Tifa," Cloud interjects, rising from the table with his now empty pate.

"Well, of course, I don't mind," Tifa continues, still sipping at her juice thoughtfully. "It's Yuffie I'm concerned about. She would never let herself stay here. She'd think she was mooching. Plus, she'd get bored just sitting around the house. Yuffie is still too young and has too much energy to settle down and stay in one place."

Vincent listens as Cloud rinses off his plate in the kitchen sink before pulling open the dishwasher and placing it inside.

"You know," Tifa says coyly, smiling wittingly at the gunslinger as she continues to make slow progress on her breakfast, "the only reason she stayed here for the last ten days was to wait for you."

He immediately looks away guiltily, but does not respond.

"She thought this would be the first place you would come after you got out of the hospital," she finishes, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

Again, he does not reply.

He knows.

He fingers the shape of the ring that still waits at the bottom of his pocket and listens distantly as Tifa asks Cloud if he wants the rest of her breakfast.

* * *

She doesn't quite know what to think. But, then again, who would? Waking up in a bed beneath sheets that smell distinctly of a certain red-eyed gunslinger and are still warm with the heat of his body would unsettle _anyone_. However, cuddling into the pillow and breathing in the sweet smell of rain water and pine trees from his hair, she simply could not be happier. She could lay here all day. In fact, she just might. After missing out on six nights of sleep, she has every right not to emerge from this room until noon tomorrow. And the thought of laying here, swathed in the scent of _Vincent_ makes it all the more tempting. But then she realizes she has not yet gotten up to shower, and the thought of her own fragrance overpowering and snuffing out his is enough motivation to get her out of bed and rifling through her pack for a towel and a clean change of clothing.

And as she scurries off to the bathroom, she prays that no one decides to wash the bedding, because then she would have to kill whoever did. So, just for good measure, as she rushes past the staircase toward the bathroom, she shouts downstairs "Don't anyone dare touch my bed!".

In the kitchen she can hear Cloud laughing.

* * *

"Does this hurt?"

He winces uncomfortably as Tifa prods the cap of his shoulder inquisitively and wonders if this is truly necessary when it is the entirety of both his shoulders that hurts.

"Yes," he answers shortly, swallowing down a growl of pain as she pokes him yet again.

He wishes she had not forced him to remove his shirt, because that only has only served to make this situation doubly awkward. His lean torso is covered in scars, and having this much skin exposed for the world to see makes him very uncomfortable. Cloud, standing diligently at his wife's side as she works, seems to sympathize with him.

"Damn, Vincent. That one looks like it was pretty nasty," Cloud admires, pointing at the thick, ragged scar that blazes across the gunman's left pectoral.

Vincent grimaces as Tifa finds another tender spot just above his shoulder blade.

"Cardiac enhancements," he replies, forcing a straight face.

Cloud's face twists in revulsion.

"That hurt, didn't it?" Tifa asks as her cool fingers continue to inspect his shoulders.

"Yes," he answers again.

After another moment of unpleasant examination, he feels her hands leave his skin as she stands from her chair.

"Well, Vincent, thanks to all your physical augmentation, nothing is broken from what I can tell," she says cheerily, patting him on the back gently. "However, you do have some serious skeletal bruising on both your shoulders and at both ends of your clavicle. The pain around your shoulder blades is just flesh-related bruising, so nothing too serious. But, you're going to be pretty sore for a little while, so you should just try to take it easy."

He nods, rising from his seat and thanking her quietly as he lifts his shirt from the back of the chair.

"I'll really have to scold her," Tifa says, shaking her head as she eyes the bruising on Vincent's shoulders, "I told her not to beat you up too badly."

Cloud just chuckles and folds his arms, "Shouldn't have told her where you keep your cookware, then. You should have known she'd use the five-fryer."

"She did!? No wonder he looks as bad as he does. I'll really have to get on her now. She could have killed him!"

"I think she almost did," Cloud murmurs humorously as quick footsteps descend the stairs.

"Hey, little girl, are your ears burning yet?" he shouts when she appears on the landing.

"No, but they should be when you've got a mouth that big," she counters snidely as she bounds the rest of the way down the stairs.

She reaches the table in two strides, lifting the last clean plate and smiling gratefully at what remains on the breakfast platter.

"Looks like I caught the tail-end of breakfast."

But as she moves to heap her plate with the leftover pancakes, something else catches her eye. There is a very shirtless, albeit very bruised, Vincent Valentine standing at the other end of the table currently preparing to re-clothe himself. She wants to say something, she needs to say something. Anything. Even a simple 'good morning' would do. But she can think of nothing that sounds remotely intelligent, so instead she goes about getting her breakfast. She hopes he did not notice her staring.

"What the hell did you guys do to each other last night?" Cloud admonishes as she turns away, exposing her bruised cheek. "Your face looks almost as bad as Vincent's."

"What? You don't like it, Cloud?" she teases, sitting down in an empty seat at the table. "Gee, I thought it was kinda sexy."

"Yuffie, are you okay?" Tifa asks worriedly.

"I'm fine, Tifa," the ninja reassures her through a mouthful of pancake.

Cloud, however, scowling irately, does not seem convinced.

"Yuffie, what the hell happened last night? It sounded like you and Vincent were trying to kill each other," he presses.

The shinobi returns his bitter glare, but does not answer and resumes eating her breakfast.

It's none of his business, she thinks. Damn busybody.

"It is nothing you need concern yourself with, Cloud," Vincent says firmly, sliding his shirt over his shoulders.

She notices that he leaves it unbuttoned.

* * *

He notices she is staring.

Maybe that is why he neglects to button his shirt.

But he would never admit that, because that is not something he would do. He does not want her to stare. She does not need to see his array of scars and disfigurements. Then he might truly frighten her.

He thinks back on the times she had teased him about donning more casual clothing; tee-shirts, jeans, even shorts and the like. But his reasons for refusing to do so are the same as his reasons for refusing to cut his hair.

Scars, and far too many of them.

They wind and weave up every limb: muscular strengthening. They cris-cross over and around his chest and back: organ replacements and spinal augmentations. They creep all the way up his neck and spread out across his skull like roots: nerve enhancements and cranial reinforcements.

His body is more durable than any SOLDIER's. His strength rivals that of Sephiroth himself. He is as immortal as any god. He is the deadliest weapon, the perfect killing machine.

But he is ugly. A monstrosity. His humanity, his normality, was traded away for this freakish power; a price he never would have paid. That is why he hides his body beneath heavy clothes and his face behind long hair. He does not want the planet to see his shame.

So, then why? Why does he leave his shirt unbuttoned, the mutilated skin of his chest bare before the eyes of his comrades?

Perhaps because he wants her to see him for what he is.

Perhaps because he hopes she will see him for what he is, and maybe, just maybe, she will not care.

But he would never admit that, because that is not something he would do.

He buttons his shirt closed, thanking Tifa for breakfast and seeing to his shoulders. He will follow her advice and try a cure spell on the bruising later. Because even though she had offered, he does not want to trouble Yuffie. Or perhaps he is simply trying to hide again.

But he would never admit that, because that _is_ something he would do.

As he stalks past the breakfast table toward the stairs, he grumbles that he will be laying down in the guest room, and notices she is no longer staring.

* * *

She wants to ask about the bruising. She wants to see if he will let her try to fix it. But she is too much of a chicken shit to speak up.

"Yuffie?"

She wants to talk about the wedding. She wants to know if he still intends to keep his promise. She wants to know if he has gotten her a ring. But she is too much of a chicken shit to ask.

"Yuffie?"

She wants to know where he will go after this. She wants to know if she can go, too. She wants to know what his plans are. She wants to know what _they_ are supposed to do. But she is too much of a chicken shit to find out.

"**Yuffie!**"

Startled, she looks up from the book she hasn't even been reading. Tifa is standing in front of her, one hand on her hip and Marlene clinging to the other.

Yuffie bites her lip. She needs to stay out of her own head for a while.

"Yes?" she answers uneasily.

The martial artist frowns impatiently.

"I just wanted to let you know that Cloud and I are taking the kids over to the old park across town, okay?"

"Okay."

Marlene tugs on Tifa's hand, anxious to leave, but the barmaid ignores her.

"Yuffie, are you sure you're alright? Maybe you should go back to bed."

The ninja laughs, "I'm fine, Tifa. I promise. Just a good book, that's all."

Tifa looks less than satisfied, but as Denzel yells at her from the porch, she rolls her eyes and turns to head for the door, Marlene eagerly leading.

"Vincent is upstairs taking a nap in the guest room," she calls over her shoulder, "We'll be back later this afternoon."

The door slams shut and the shinobi is alone again in the silent bar. She looks back down at her book, and sighs when she belatedly realizes that it is upside down. Very convincing, she thinks.

She doesn't even actually know what this book is about. In fact, it's not even her's.

Looking for a way to pass the hours, she had stolen it from Vincent's pack while he'd been sleeping. But she hasn't even bothered to read the inside cover, and the title is written in a language she does not recognize. She had simply opened it up to a random page and pretended to read while getting lost in her own thoughts instead.

She thinks he will be mad when he finds it gone, but the kleptomaniac in her is an easy scapegoat.

'I couldn't help it,' she will say, 'I just had to.'

And boredom has always very easily gotten the best of her.

She holds the old book close to her and sniffs the yellowed pages. They smell like his cloak: sweet and musky with a hint of gunpowder. The smell is comforting as she sits by herself in the bar's lounge, curled up on the big leather sofa.

She runs a finger gently down the fraying spine and wonders just how old it is, how long he's had it. She turns it over, staring intently at the title, wishing she knew what it meant, that the condition was still such that she could even read it. She frowns.

This book frustrates her.

She opens it up to a page near the middle, listening to the old bindings crack as she does. She thinks she should be more gentle with it, because she doubts Vincent will forgive her if she destroys it further.

She scans the page uninterestedly, not truly bothering to understand what is going on outside of the fact that it's a play. The characters' names are boring and unremarkable, much like, as she's finding, the things they have to say. She passes over a few more pages, but what appears to be a rather dry story about a man and a woman who are so infinitely stubborn that _their_ friends – or maybe their cousins and something about a prince – have to _trick_ them into liking each other is vastly unentertaining. Though it's clearly attempting to be humorous, she thinks that even _Vincent_ could do a better job. It doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone want to read this? But then she remembers whose pack she found it in, and suddenly it all makes sense.

This book frustrates her.

So, to let it know just how much she detests it, she stuffs it roughly between the back of the sofa and the cushion and leaves it there before getting off the couch and heading for the stairs. As she makes her way up to the guest room, she hopes she will not forget it there. Vincent will be very upset if she doesn't return it eventually.

She wants to ask about it. She wants to ask him how and why he has it. She wants to ask him what it means. She wants to ask him if she can keep it. But she is too much of a chicken shit to try.

* * *

This book frustrates him.

He has read it far too many times, and he's not quite sure why he bothered to bring it with him because he can easily recite the lines of every character and fill in every plot hole without even opening the book. He knows this because, in his head, he has already finished it and he hasn't even _found _it yet. He knows this because it is so dreadfully boring he doesn't know _why_ he brought it with him or _why_ he is even bothering to look for it.

He sighs quietly before laying back down on the bed and tucking an arm behind his head. He can still feel the pounding in his brain and the tenderness in his shoulders, and it makes even the simplest activities rather uncomfortable and unenjoyable. He should fetch that restore materia from his pack, but he can't seem to make himself get back up and do so. Besides, the fact that his book has mysteriously vanished does not leave much hope for his other belongings of a similar genre.

His hand moves to his thigh and again he traces the shape of the ring in his pocket. For a moment, he thinks of a wedding. But as he hears her quietly ascending the stairs, he tucks the thought away decidedly resigns himself to staring absently at the ceiling.

"Hey, what makes you think you can hog the bed when you're not even using it?"

She is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and glowering at him unpleasantly.

"I am using it," he answers blandly, ignoring her irritated scowl.

"You are not. Beds are for sleeping in, not laying on like a lump," she informs him tersely. "But if that's what you want to do, then go find a couch, because I want to take nap. And I can't with you pigging the bed all to yourself."

"If I recall, you slept on the sofa last night."

He is trying to be humorous, but she does not seem amused in the slightest.

"Yeah, only 'cause I felt bad for breaking your face. But, you're obviously feeling better now, so move it."

"My head still hurts a great deal."

She throws her hands in the air and groans loudly.

"Gawd, why do you always have to be such a stubborn pain-in-the-ass!? I haven't slept for almost a week and you can't even let me have the bed for a few hours so I can take a _nap_!"

"It is not my fault you neglected to sleep for a week."

"Yes it is! I stayed up for seven days straight to wait for _you_!"

"I did not ask you to."

Shocked, she stares down at him, jaw gaping, for a long moment. She does not know what to say. She had not expected that, although she supposes she should have, because it's true. He hadn't asked her to stay up and wait for him; she'd _wanted_ to.

I did it because I care, she thinks. But she doesn't know why she ever expected _him_ to. Reluctantly, she turns her gaze to the floor, closing her mouth as she does.

"Sorry," she mutters, "you're right."

She starts across the room toward the sofa, avoiding eye contact with the gunslinger at all costs.

"I'll just use the couch. Sorry for bugging you," she adds lamely, flopping gracelessly onto the squishy three-seater.

She rolls over on to her side, facing away from him.

"Why did you wait for me?" he asks.

'Because I care about you, you big dope,' she wants to say. But instead she squeezes her eyes shut tight and hugs herself, missing the comfort of his cloak.

"Because I wanted to see if I was off the hook or not," she lies. "Can't marry someone if they're dead."

She hates herself for saying it. But she hates herself more when he doesn't respond.

She hugs herself tighter and thinks of a wedding.


	4. Chapter 4

She wants to cry.

Whenever she sees the slowly healing bruises on his face.

Whenever he refuses to meet her eyes from across the table at dinner.

Whenever he ignores her as she passes him in the kitchen.

Whenever she remembers how she lied to him.

Whenever she thinks of his bestial snarl and the back of his hand across her cheek.

Whenever she thinks of a wedding, tears spring uninvited to her eyes and she wraps his cloak around her a little tighter.

She wants to cry.

* * *

He is leaving.

He had been discussing his plans with Cloud in the lounge when she had overheard this while fetching a soda from the fridge earlier this afternoon. He had never mentioned this to _her_. In three days, they have not shared a single word with one another and he has barely bothered to even look at her. It makes her sick.

He is leaving in two days.

And she does not know where he will be going.

She loathes herself for lying to him. But she loathes him for believing her. She's never been a decent liar before, and she certainly isn't one now. Why, of all her poor lies to believe, did he believe that one? She doesn't understand how she had managed to convince _him_ when she hadn't even managed to convince _herself_.

He truly is a dope.

And she truly is a liar of the worst kind.

She curls herself into his cloak and gazes at his sleeping body from across the room. He has still refused to relinquish the bed.

Selfish jerk, she thinks.

He had even possessed the gall to be angry when she had taken to using his cloak as a blanket, though he had yet to voice it. However, she honestly couldn't care less. She thinks it's the least he can do to let her use it when he won't even share the damn bed. If he seriously expects her to sleep on a lumpy old sofa with no blanket, she thinks he can kindly go to hell.

She mentally reminds herself that now is not the time to be riling herself up like this, but at 2:01 in the morning, she figures it doesn't really matter because she probably won't fall asleep anyway.

So instead, she sits herself up and throws her legs over the edge of the couch, continuing to study the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. She can't help but be jealous. That damn lie hasn't let her sleep well for the last three nights.

She pulls his cloak around her shoulders to block out the chill brought on by Cloud's irrational love of air-conditioning. It wasn't even very hot today, she thinks. But, then again, how would she know? She hasn't seen the sun in almost two weeks. However, she does know that mid-summer in Edge is both hot, and humid. Nothing like the dry, desert summers of Wutai, she thinks. Mid-summer in Edge is miserable.

She stretches her legs out and touches her toes against the cool hardwood floor. She belatedly thinks she should have brought warmer pajamas, but she hadn't known of Cloud's obsession with air-conditioning, so at the time sleeping in her bra and panties seemed acceptable, considering the climate of Edge during the summer.

"_Leviathan_, it's cold in here."

Reluctantly, she rises from the warm couch and wraps herself in his cloak as best she can before making her way quietly toward the open door. The old floorboards creak beneath her bare feet, and she steals a quick glance in the gunslinger's direction, but he doesn't stir. She does her best to hurry without making too much of a ruckus, which she thinks should not be so difficult. She _is_ Wutai Super Ninja after all. However, she still feels clumsy and awkward slipping past his bed to the door. But then she remembers: she always feels clumsy and awkward in front of Vincent, and apparently he doesn't even have to be awake.

She doesn't bother to sneak another quick look at his peaceful body lying in the bed beneath tangled sheets as she scurries down the hallway toward the stairs. Although, a part of her still wonders how he can possibly sleep without a shirt on. It's so ridiculously cold.

As she makes her way carefully down the stairs, she almost regrets taking the cloak with her because it is so absurdly big for her that it drags on the floor behind her and she nearly slips and falls when her feet get tangled in it. She growls irritably and kicks at it after regaining her balance.

When at last she makes it into the darkened lounge, lit only by Tifa's customary candles, she plops onto the large leather couch and reaches between the cushions, groping about for her stolen book. She finds it immediately, waiting for her exactly where she left it. She scoots over into the corner of the sofa, curling up in a ball and readjusting the cloak around her body before opening up further into the book. She knows she is cheating, but she has never liked reading books from the beginning anyway.

She snorts cynically as she skims the page. This book continues to fascinate her with its lack of a real plot line and painfully static characters.

What a ridiculous idea, she thinks. Faking your own death to get back at your lover. But then she stops to think on it for a moment and frowns when she realizes what a bell that rings.

"I guess it's not exactly the same, but pretty damn close considering she had about as much common sense as this 'Hero' chick when it came to relationships."

"Do you always talk to yourself late at night?"

She squeaks in surprise, snapping the book shut and stuffing it back between the cushions. She feels like such a fool, she can't believe she hadn't heard him.

"I think you just gave me a heart attack, you jerk!" she snaps, glaring at where he stands at the bottom of the stairs. "Geez, Vince, do you, like, sneak up on people for a living or something?"

"My apologies," he says, and she can just imagine the satisfied smirk he must be wearing.

She cuddles into his cloak, quickly checking herself to make sure she is still decent.

"What are you doing awake anyway?" she asks resentfully, fixing him with another scowl.

"I could easily ask you the same question," he replies smugly, ignoring her glare as he strides into the kitchen for a glass of water.

She hates when he does that.

"Yeah, but I asked you first," she retorts childishly, watching him move from the cabinet to the sink. "And hey! What makes you think that after three days of totally ignoring me, you can just mosey on over and be my buddy again?"

He glances at her over his shoulder, smiling minutely as he turns on the sink and fills his glass.

"I thought I had heard someone trip on the stairs."

Her jaws drops. She has never hated him more.

"Well, it wasn't _me_."

Glass in hand, he makes his way across the bar into the lounge, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa.

"I wonder then if my imagination is simply getting the best of me," he replies, taking a sip of his water.

She shrugs and shoots him a nasty grin, "S'okay Vince. I'd go crazy too if I heard the voice of some psychotic dead bitch in my head all day, every day."

He is in her face in an instant, his eyes narrowed and his brow creased. Instinctively, she shies away, wanting horribly for the sofa to swallow her whole so he cannot glare her down with those furious crimson eyes. She gathers from the dangerous scowl creasing his handsome features that he did not find her little remark humorous. He looks much like did after striking her four nights ago.

This proximity terrifies her. He is close enough for her to feel the warm air on her skin when he breathes. The sweet scent of his breath makes her mouth water and she wants so badly to taste him. But the rage in his irises is enough to spike a shiver and send it blazing down her spine. She sinks further into the corner of the couch, only for him to follow her.

"You would do well to keep such ignorant opinions to yourself, Yuffie," he growls, holding her frightened gaze with his own. "You know nothing of Lucrecia."

He speaks her name with such respect that it makes her sick. How can he possibly hold that woman in such high honor? She broke his heart and sold away his life to a lunatic. She is the reason why Vincent looks in the mirror and sees a monster instead of a man.

How? How can he still care for her? It is a concept that Yuffie cannot seem to wrap her head around.

"Do, too," she defends weakly, struggling to hold eye contact.

He does not seem the least bit convinced.

"I've seen the files," she insists, "I've read her reports. I know about her thesis. Shelke showed me everything. I know just as much about that woman as you do."

She vehemently refuses to say her name.

Vincent, however, does not seem impressed.

"That may be," he counters, his velvet voice dropping several octaves, "but, you have never _met_ her. Knowing of her, knowing _about_ her does not mean you _know_ her. No one, especially not _you_, knows her as I do."

The last remark stings, and she cringes visibly, her eyes straying away from his.

"I don't need to know her to know what she did to you," she murmurs half-heartedly. "And that's enough to never _want_ to know her."

From the corner of her eye she sees his expression twist in disbelief, but still he keeps her pinned beneath him, trapped within the cage of his pale arms. However, his shocked silence emboldens her and she musters the courage to face him again.

"You can protect her as much as you want, and keep telling us that it was all _your_ fault. But, we're not stupid," she informs him harshly. "Do you like drowning in your own denial?"

She is secretly pleased when he cannot seem to find the words to fight her.

"She ruined you, Vincent. Stop lying to yourself. You're only making it harder."

He almost looks as though he cannot breathe. His eyes are far away and his body shakes.

"I don't even know why you made me that promise in the first place," she continues sourly, no longer bothering to look at him. "Even a marriage _without_ love still can't function when the other half can't learn to let go."

"Shut up," he whispers hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists, still hovering above her.

"No," she snarls, "because you know I'm right."

His lids fly open and his eyes find hers. She holds her breath as the rekindled fury in his irises engulfs her.

"You know nothing," he spits. "You are a child, you know _nothing_."

She laughs bitterly, unaffected by the cruelty of his statement.

"Not even Cid tells me that anymore," she replies sardonically.

As she smiles maliciously up at him, he seems to realize the magnitude of the words that have left his mouth.

"You know, I always that you'd be the first one to notice how much I've grown up, that I'm not just the immature brat anymore."

He continues to stare down at her, his sweet breath fanning across her face, making her struggle to resist him all the more challenging. She forces another acidic smile.

"Shows what I know."

As she moves to slide free of his bodily cage, a gentle hand brushing across her cheek stops her. She looks up at him and is surprised to see a frail smile on his elegant lips.

"Yuffie..." he whispers, caressing her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "Please, forgive me. I had not meant to imply that your disposition has not changed in the last three years."

She is too angry with him to care.

"Great, apology accepted," she answers snidely. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to bed."

She tucks his cloak around her as she would a bath towel and quickly slides out from underneath him. She knows she should walk, but her feet and legs refuse to listen as she takes off toward the stairs, refusing to look back over her shoulder. In the blink of an eye, she is safe again within the walls of the guest room, curled up tightly on the sofa.

She knows she probably hurt his feelings, but she thinks it serves him right. After all, he hurt her first.

She lies awake for what feels like hours, listening attentively for the sound of his footsteps on the staircase, waiting for the quiet creaking the old mattress when he climbs back into bed. But, no matter how hard she listens, or how long she waits, he never does.

The moonlight filtering through the open window glints off her pathetic excuse for an engagement ring and for a brief moment she thinks of a wedding.

She shoves her face into his cloak and wants to cry.

* * *

He wonders why he has yet to finish his glass of water.

He wonders what time it could possibly be.

He wonders why he is still sitting downstairs in Tifa's lounge.

He wonders what is causing the uncomfortable lump he feels beneath the sofa cushion.

He wonders why he hasn't gone back upstairs.

He wonders why he _refuses_ to go back upstairs.

He wonders why she scares him so.

He wonders how they will _ever_ manage to make a marriage work.

He wonders why he even agreed to marry her in the first place.

He wonders why she even asked.

He wonders why he is still wondering when he already knows the answers.

Then he wonders why this ring still sits and waits at the bottom of his pocket, and realizes that maybe he doesn't.


	5. Chapter 5

When she wakes the next morning with a head full of dark hair in her face, her initial reaction is a mixture of startled snorting and sputtering as she hastily attempts to scrape aforementioned hair from her tongue with fingers that are weak and clumsy from sleep. But, as she gags and spits in a less-than-feminine manner, she supposes this is what she gets for her less-than-feminine habit of sleeping with her mouth open.

She is thoroughly disgusted with herself – because having hair in one's mouth is quite honestly the foulest of foul feelings on the planet – until she realizes that the hair she is spitting out is the entirely wrong color and _not connected_ to her own head. The hair she is spitting out is not _hers_.

It is only in that belated moment that her sleep-heavy eyes come to terms with the fact that someone – and not just anyone – has fallen asleep at the foot of the sofa and their head has lolled back onto the cushion.

Holy planet, she thinks. The dark hair that she has spent the latter half of the night chewing on is _his_. For a brief moment, she thinks to be angry with herself, but then she remembers that he was the doofus who decided it would be a good idea to sleep at the foot of the sofa.

Seriously, she thinks. Who does that? Especially when there's a perfectly comfortable bed not ten feet away.

She looks down at the drool-soaked ends of his hair, and then to his sleeping face, which strangely does not look quite as angelic as usual. She almost thinks that it makes sense though, because only Vincent Valentine would grimace in his sleep, until she realizes that having one's neck bent at a forty-five degree angle over the edge of a sofa can't be terribly comfortable.

"What an idiot," she murmurs, smiling in spite of herself.

But then she wonders what in the name of the planet he is doing sleeping at the foot of her makeshift bed anyway. They were supposed to be mad at each other.

"You're not very good at this game, are you, Vince?"

She half expects him to respond – because it would be so like him to sit here and listen to her make a fool of herself while she thinks he's asleep – and is mildly surprised when he doesn't, which makes her wonder how late he stayed up last night. After all, she'd never heard him come back upstairs.

She studies the creases in his perfect face, and wonders if maybe he hasn't been sleeping at all these last few nights, because you certainly don't get lines like that beneath your eyes from stress. Besides, since when does Vincent Valentine stress out about _anything_?

She is just waiting for his eyes to fly open and find her close enough to his face for their noses to touch, because he has always had the most impeccable timing when it comes to making a situation awkward. But he throws her for yet another loop when his eyes remain closed.

What is wrong with him, she thinks. It was very unlike Vincent to be this tired. But, before she can mull it over further, she finds herself distracted by his hand lying palm-up and open on the floor and the way the sunlight leaking through the blinds glints off of it.

"What in the name of Leviathan does he have?"'

As she cranes her torso for closer inspection, she realizes belatedly that this was a very poor idea, because her balance faithfully abandons her and she tumbles off the sofa and into his lap with a profound thud. Whatever was in his hand clatters to the floor, and the moment she had been so eagerly anticipating arrives as his neck snaps forward and his eyes shoot open to find her upside down in his lap staring back up at him.

They gaze at each other for a long moment, not quite knowing what to make of their current predicament. After all, it's not often Vincent Valentine awakes to a half naked little girl toppling into his lap. Yuffie does not even bother attempting to right herself. She knows she'll only embarrass herself further. Besides, she thinks, this is actually quite comfortable.

Finally, after what feels like ages of basking in the awkwardness, Vincent finally clears his throat and speaks.

"Good morning."

How typically Vincent, she thinks.

"... I fell."

Her reply is so pathetic that it astounds even her. Surely she could have come up with _something_ better. But, then she remembers who she is talking to, and changes her mind.

"So I noticed," he informs her. "And how exactly did you manage that?"

She bites her lip and thinks about her answer. She's stuck between a rock and hard place. She's tired of lying and she's tired of being angry because lying deprives her of sleep and telling the truth has a habit of making him angry. It's a lose-lose situation, but she decides that lying is out because she'd rather sleep well at night and an angry Vincent had never hindered that before.

"I wanted to see what was in your hand," she admits quietly.

She is caught off guard when for a brief moment he looks almost frightened and his eyes flit back and forth frantically. Vincent Valentine? Worried? Sweet Leviathan, she thinks, the universe has surely imploded.

"Vince?" she asks apprehensively, tilting her head to one side. "Are you okay?"

His expression twists into anger and she braces herself for the backlash. At least she'll get to sleep tonight, she thinks.

"Damn," he curses under his breath, grinding his teeth in a frustrated grimace.

He sits forward grudgingly, ignoring the way she falls back against him, and reaches out to pick up off the floor whatever it was she had knocked from his hand. He can't believe he had fallen asleep. Now what is he supposed to do?

"Vincent?"

He glances down at her briefly, and thinks she looks almost as worried and motherly as Tifa at her finest. And as he grasps her lithe little arms gently, he can feel her skin turn to goose flesh beneath his fingers. He wonders why in the name of all that is holy she wouldn't have gone to bed with more clothing. At this rate, he thinks Cloud is liable to freeze her to death. But, maybe she wouldn't be so poorly off if he had just let her have the bed in the first place.

He's honestly not sure what to think, but he knows he cannot sit here with her half-naked in his lap, staring up at him like a frightened child for much longer.

"You really ought to wear something warmer at night," he tells her firmly as he shifts her off of him. "You'll fall ill sleeping in so little."

As he gets to his feet, she clambers for the corner of his cloak hanging off the bed, her cheeks so impossibly red they put the garment to shame. As she hurriedly wraps it about herself, he turns to go, but a small voice echoing his name stops him in the doorway. When he glances back at her, she is holding the cloak against her, knees turned inward, looking as though she is about to cry.

"Vincent," she repeats herself, "what was it?"

He looks down at his fisted hand, contemplating an answer he knows he will not come to. Slowly, he turns his hand over and uncurls his fingers, gazing forlornly at his palm. She is startled when, without bothering to look back up, he flicks something across the room and into her unprepared hand with one swift movement of his fingers. However, she is equally unprepared for what she looks down and finds resting in her palm.

The band is wonderfully plain; forged from some unknown metal that reminds her of blackened silver, with an intricate little engraved Cerberus winding about it. There is no gold detailing, and no massive gemstones, but she thinks, in its simplicity, it is the prettiest little piece of jewelry she's even seen. She turns it over in her fingers, examining the metal, wondering what it could possibly be made of, because it certainly isn't silver.

"I hope that one is more acceptable," he says, turning back toward the door.

"You had it made, didn't you?" she asks, stopping him yet again.

"Yes."

"Out of what?"

He hesitates this time, eyeing her carefully as if he could actually anticipate her reaction.

"I lost a bit of length off my long barrel," he answers flatly, "but nothing to my detriment."

She quirks a brow and glances back down at the ring as if she isn't quite sure she believes him.

"You used Cerberus?"

He thinks perhaps it wasn't such a clever notion after all. He can't exactly blame her for being disappointed by a wedding ring made of gunmetal.

"If you would prefer a different material, I can have another forged. In silver, if you wish," he offers.

It is silent for a long moment and he finds himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable standing in the doorway, awaiting a response. He wonders why now of all times she chooses to keep her mouth shut. Never has he found himself wishing for her endearing chatter as he does now. Silence did not suit her well.

He watches as her eyes flit back and forth between his face and what rests in her palm, lingering on one before flicking back to the other. Her lips are parted in a loss for words, coming together in a thin line only when she forces herself to swallow. Why, he thinks. Why won't she speak?

It is several more minutes of nothingness before he decides he can take no more and turns to leave for a third time, still anticipating her answer but garnering nothing even as he steps from the room and begins to make his way down the hall.

However, he is not at all prepared for the swift approach of footsteps from behind and the sudden weight of another body being thrown against his back as she tackles him to the floor. He growls at the sharp pain in his nose and jaw when his face strikes the unforgiving hardwood, while she only gives a half-frightened 'oomph' upon landing safely on top of him. He immediately turns his head to the side, glaring at her over his shoulder, disdainfully noting that she has abandoned his cloak and is now sitting atop him in nothing but her skinnies. And before he can utter a word, she has shoved the ring in his face, looking immensely skeptical.

"Why?" she hisses.

Despite being pinned, he knows he could easily throw her off if he wished, but something in her eyes warns him against the idea. The way she glowers at him with such distrust not only stings his pride, but also makes it clear that she entirely serious, and that shrugging her off yet again would only make the situation worse; something he does not care to chance. Unfortunately, she does not take it well either when he relaxes beneath her.

"Why?" she spits again, stilling holding the ring before him. "Is this your way of saying sorry?"

It's obvious to her from the way he quirks an eyebrow and gazes up at her doubtfully that he doesn't understand, which only frustrates her further.

"If giving me this is your way of apologizing for being such a jerk last night, then you can take it back!"

So that's what she had been getting at. And he thought his pride had suffered before.

"Yuffie."

She shakes her head violently and thumps her free hand against his back, "No! I won't take it because you feel bad about being mean!"

"Yuffie."

"And the only way I will take it is if you're really serious about going through with this, and if you come up with a better proposal, because that one sucked!"

He sighs quietly in amusement before rolling onto his back beneath her, taking care not to unseat her in the process, and wondering why she always does the exact opposite of what he wants. But, then he remembers that this is Yuffie and can't help but smile.

"Yuffie."

"WHAT?"

He gently pries the band from her fingers, taking her hand carefully in his before glancing up to gauge her expression. She is still glaring at him, eyes narrow and and lips pursed as if she doesn't really believe him. He chuckles as he removes the little silver link from her finger and slides the new band on in its place.

"Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Strangely, the phrase does not feel foreign in the slightest, as though he'd said it a million times before, even if only in his head and to a different woman. The cynic in him wonders briefly if that shouldn't be a signal to run the other way. And yet, he stays, feeling entirely sincere.

When he turns his gaze back to the girl sitting on top of him, her eyes have gone wide and her mouth has fallen open again.

"Oh my gawd," she starts, glancing down at her hand, then back to him. "You're totally serious, aren't you?"

He can feel his expression twist into an irritated scowl as he narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on her hand. Trust Yuffie to ruin the moment.

"I am, Yuffie," he assures her sternly.

Her cheeks flush pink and she immediately looks away, fisting her free hand in the fabric of his shirt.

"Oh, wow," she sighs. "I wasn't expecting that at all."

She glances back down at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"You mean it?"

"You insult me," he replies darkly without missing a beat.

His mildly surprised when, rather than huffing a breath and crossing her arms over her chest, she smiles and sticks her tongue out.

"Then, yes," she chirps. "... But, only if you really mean it."

His only response is to roll his eyes and groan in frustration, which she quickly amends for with an embarrassed "Sorry" before hunching over and hiding her face in his chest.

"You are truly infuriating," he murmurs, raising a hand to thread his fingers through her hair.

She lifts her head just enough to settle her chin on his sternum and meet his gaze with a wide smile.

"Yeah, but I'm cute."

"Yes," he agrees hesitantly, one corner of his lips pulling up in a crooked smirk. "But, you are also spoiled."

She closes her eyes and blows him a small raspberry before folding her arms atop his chest in front of her.

"Nah, not really," she admits modestly. "In fact, I can't even remember the last time I actually got something I really wanted."

But when she glances back down at him, his brow is raised in skepticism and he looks incredibly unconvinced.

"Really? I could have sworn Cloud allotted you full ownership of our old materia collection after the defeat of the remnants this past year," he reminds her cynically.

Her answering frown is both irritated and disappointed as she looks away and purses her lips before hesitantly responding: "That doesn't count."

"What about convincing Tifa that it is acceptable to serve you alcohol despite being underage? Does that count?"

"No."

"Then perhaps the time you decided to take the Fenrir for a joyride without Cloud's permission and then proceeded to cry when he found out later that evening to keep him from being angry with you."

"That doesn't count either."

"Or conning Marlene out of her candy by telling her you were dying and needed her gummy worms in order to survive?"

"... Neither does that."

He chuckles quietly, reaching up to cradle her cheek in his palm and gently turn her face to look at him.

"It seems I am incorrect then," he amends, watching with great interest how content she seems, laying atop him with her cheek resting against his palm and smiling mischievously. "So, tell me, Yuffie, what is it that you want so badly but are being refused?"

He should have known better than to trust the grin she wears, or else he might have been prepared for her to lean down and tentatively press her lips to his. His eyes fall closed at the soft feeling of her mouth against his, but it quickly becomes apparent that she lacks her usual gusto because the kiss is so chaste that the warmth of her mouth is gone and she has pulled away before he can even think to respond.

She is still smiling when he opens his eyes and meets her gaze, albeit looking a little embarrassed with her bottom lip back between her teeth.

"Um, that," she replies sheepishly, pointing in the direction of his mouth.

He cannot help but give a small grin, "And did I deny you?"

"Well, no," she decides reluctantly, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"So it counts, then."

She hesitates a short moment, still gnawing on her lower lip and casting him a sideways glance.

"Only kind of," she corrects him quietly. "You didn't do anything."

It does not take him long to understand her complaint, and gently strokes his thumb across her cheekbone when he does, smiling subtly.

"You truly are spoiled."

Without a sound, he pulls her toward him, closing his eyes and kissing her as gently as she had him. He is exceptionally careful, gauging her startled response and refraining from pushing her further. Instead, he settles for simply holding her face in his hands and keeping his lips pressed tenderly against hers. He can feel her wind a lithe hand into his hair and draw herself closer, sinking into him and prolonging the embrace. But he is insistent and this becomes clear to her as he kisses her more firmly, demanding closer contact. She consents without hesitance, clinging to him as if the floor were falling out beneath them and he is the only thing keeping her airborne.

She can still the smell the scent of pine trees in his hair, and the fresh desert air on his skin. The feel of his callused fingers against her cheeks is strange and rough, but he is so gentle with her that she thinks she doesn't mind too much. Even through his clothes, his body is surprisingly warm against her bare skin. He is unlike anything she has ever experienced.

She is vaguely disappointed when he carefully pulls away, but realizes as he takes a heavy breath how badly she too needs the oxygen. The gulps of air are a relief to her suffering lungs, but she thinks she still likes how he feels better.

She can see the pleasure in his expression when, after a few more breaths, he leans back in and kisses her once more, briefly and featherlight, before releasing her to lay back against the floorboards and close his eyes.

After a long moment, he can feel a soft breath ghost across his neck as she resettles herself atop his chest, resting her chin on his sternum once again. He opens his eyes to find her wearing that same wicked grin, and he knows exactly what she is about to say.

"Does that one count?" he asks in a low murmur, beating her to the punch.

But, she only smiles a little wider before turning her head to lay it against his chest and closing her eyes without a care in the world for the fact that they are still lying together on the floor in the middle of the hallway half-clothed.

"Yeah, that one counts."


End file.
